Satisfaction
by silvermisery
Summary: Potter? Please, avenge my parents. And Potter? Avenge me, and Granger, and everyone else who has to die tomorrow because of the f*cking b*stard out there. Okay?”


Satisfaction

Disclaimer: Not mine, really really not mine, please please please believe me/.

A/N: Not slash, as you should know. This is the shorter just Harry and Draco interaction part of another, longer story I started writing. That one was sort of Dramione, but this sounded so good by itself that I decided to post it separately. If you like, look out for another one, in which I will expound on it. But somehow, after this part, it doesn't sound quite as good, so yeah…I decided to just post this as a story.

Being able to talk to his fellow prisoners was something for which Harry was grateful for everyday. Not that he would ever give thanks to Voldemort, but he praised God, and Merlin, and Zeus, and Circe, and whatever deities might be up there that he had something resembling human contact. Tucked away somewhere in the back of his mind, along with the other thoughts that he dared not acknowledge, even to himself, such as that Voldemort had won this war after all, was the idea that if he didn't have that privilege of communication, he would go insane.

The dungeon was too much like his childhood fear of the cupboard for him to be ever comfortable in it, even in his sleep. Hermione had told him that he often tossed and whimpered in his sleep, and the guards laughed. They would, Harry thought bitterly.

And yet however much he swore to himself that _this _time he would not cry, he would not beg, his dreams always cracked his ever-frail shield between him and the past, and he had but to close his eyes to see the blank, accusing eyes of those who had died for him, to hear the screams of those who had suffered for him, to feel the mutilated limbs of those had fought for him, to smell the rank pain and suffering of those who were now incarcerated for him, and behind it all loomed the ever-present fear of the cupboard, and the massive figure of his Uncle Vernon behind it all, threatening even more so, somehow, than the thought of Tom.

He wondered bitterly if this was the reason to have been spared eighteen years ago, if this was why Lily had given her life for his—so that he could fall prey to the same fate now.

It was unfair of him, he knew. At the very least, he had been given those extra eighteen years, and despite it all, he didn't think that he could regret it. Not when he remembered the first time he had taken flight on a broom, or the knowledge that he was a wizard, or that first kiss with Cho, disappointment or not, or the fierce joy he had felt when he had brought down Fenrir Greyback. Or even the sharp loss and pain when he had seen Sirius fall through the Veil. It was all part of what made him _Harry, _the joy of living, tempered by pain, because if you felt no pain perhaps you could feel no joy, or else how would you know what joy was? If you have never eaten lemons, you will never know how sweet chocolate is.

_Besides, _he thought with a sort of morbid wit that defined gallows humor for him now, _I probably won't fall prey to the SAME fate anyway. Old Tom's likely to come up with something much more inventive—and painful—than the Avada Kedavra. __Like he did for Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, for example.__ THAT way __I wouldn't want to go. Though knowing __Tom, that__ would be exactly why he would choose that fate for me._

At any rate, he would find out tomorrow. Harry, too, had heard of the rumor. It had been Zacharias Smith who had found it out. The old snarky Hufflepuff had become a comfort to them all in the dungeons. Ever obnoxious, he always managed to needle the guards, finding and probing their weakness mercilessly. However much he paid for it later, the feeling that one of them at least got some revenge on their torturers was good for the morals of them all. And the bruises and welts didn't mar his strange beauty, the restless intense look on his face, dark skin and black hair and mocking eyes, the features of a Greek god, perhaps, Hermes.

Cynical, questioning, always questioning, no matter what, he would look at you if you told him that the sun would always rise in the east and ask if you were _sure _of that. And somehow, when he did, you faltered, and under that steady gaze, you weren't so sure of it after all. His skill for creating unease had been invaluable when he had been a spy, and was invaluable now for drawing information out of the guards.

So it was that Harry knew the exact date of his execution. Mirthlessly, he smiled suddenly, thinking about it. How ironic that it would be on his birthday. Not that it mattered, much, but he wished that it would at least be warm. Tom had manipulated the weather too much, and all the uncontrolled wandless magic flying about had permanently disrupted the weather, and no one knew whether it would be hot or cold the next day, but Harry wished that it would be warm, but not too warm. A perfect summer day, so that for once he could pretend that it was all okay again.

So that he could die with the dignity that his mother deserved.

Lost in his own thoughts, he was not prepared for the face that suddenly loomed out of the darkness, and stumbled back before tripping on his chains and landing unceremoniously on his arse on the cold, wet floor.

Then he recovered whatever was left of his pride and hissed, "Fuck off, Malfoy."

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Draco didn't do stupid. _Malfoys _didn't do stupid. So for one last moment, he had to wonder what the _hell _had possessed for him to do this, especially when the man he was risking his life for tripped over his own chains—you would think that after three months of being wrapped in them, the stupid Gryffindor would at least get used to them—and landed on his arse.

Then he reminded himself that he had gone over this a million times, and that he was convinced that what he was doing was the right decision. It was simply extremely difficult for him to remember this when he was displayed with such a blatant display of ridiculousness that he thought that the Dark Lord's views on Pureblood superiority were not so risible after all. Steadfastly fixing on his thoughts on the reason he thought that the Dark Lord was wrong, he made a Herculean effort not to smirk or sneer, and told himself that it was not his fault if a little condescension showed through. He was only human, and a Slytherin to boot.

Instead, he examined his cuticles—which he vaguely noticed that were in a deplorable state, unworthy of being a Malfoy, but focused most of his attention on the fuming Potter. "Now that's not very nice, is it Potter?" he drawled obnoxiously—yes, he knew he was being obnoxious, did you really think he didn't do it on purpose? Of course he did; he did everything on purpose…or almost everything, anyway.

"Somehow, I don't really give a damn about being nice to you, Malfoy," sniped Potter. "Think a moment and I'm sure you'll understand. That is, if you're actually capable of thinking for yourself and don't have to have every idea spelled out for you by old Tom."

Draco schooled himself not to show his irritation. Potter couldn't have known how deep that had cut. Because yes, sometimes he wondered the same about himself. Worse, Draco thought he knew the answer.

He took a deep breath. _You are not a mindless automaton of the Dark Lord's, or you wouldn't be here. Calm down._

"Funny you should mention that. I came down here to talk about that idea of yours, actually. You know, the hypothetical one that isn't monitored by old Tom?" It was extremely difficult to do that, but he had practiced in private, when he was absolutely sure he wasn't being monitored, and the astonished look on Potter's face was worth the effort.

"What are you talking about?" the other man's eyes were narrowed, bright slits of green that looked like a predator. If things had turned out differently, Potter would have made an excellent Lord, Light or Dark.

Draco looked around one more time, but he knew it was useless. If they were being monitored now, he was already lost, since he had called the Dark Lord by his first name.

"Okay, I know you're a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors are too stupid to do subtle, so I'm going to be blunt with you. Blunt and stupid—that's what Gryffindors do, right?" Before Potter could take insult, he hurried on.

"I have here a Polyjuice Potion, specially altered to last for a full week. You and I are going to switch hairs, and then identities. Zacharias Smith has been freed. You and he will go through the wards together. A week should last you long enough to get the hell out of here. France, Russia, any damn place you want, as long as it's out of Voldemort's reach. I shouldn't have to tell you to keep Smith's face covered, as I only have enough Polyjuice for one."

Potter snorted. "Don't be stupid. I might have fallen for that in first year. No way in hell am I going along with some sort of stupid sadistic plan of Voldemort's to play cat-and-mouse with me."

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Look, if you don't do this, you die. If you do this, you might live. See? You've got fucking nothing to lose if I'm lying, and I have fucking everything, so for once could you shut up and see some sense?"

The other man's eyes blinked, then slanted as his brows contracted into a heavy V. "Let's assume I believe you. Why Zacharias?"

"The Dark Mark is necessary to get through some of the wards on this hellhole. You can't fake the spells interwoven into that with Polyjuice, glamours, or anything else I've researched." He was also fond of the Hufflepuff, heresy though it was, as it had been his relentless soul-searching that had caused this turnabout of Draco's anyway, but Potter didn't need to know that.

"Who altered the Polyjuice? I've never heard of anything like that."

"Courtesy moi. Star Potions student, remember?"

"Why are you doing this?"

Ah, here it was, the clincher.

"None of your business."

Draco saw the slight resentment flicker in those eyes, mix with confusion and hatred and desperate hope.

"Look, if you still can't trust me, I'll let you do Legilimens. I'm a Master Occlumens, Severus taught me, even Voldemort can't get through my barriers, but if I lower them for you you'll be able to see I'm telling you the truth."

Potter hesitated, then dove into his grey eyes immediately. The man was much less painful than Voldemort, who seared through your mind, ripping and tearing, destroying fragile webs and trains of thought, causing you to walk unsteadily from the room, dazed and bleeding internally, not from the body, but from your mind, even making you go insane. They all knew that was what had happened to Evan Rosier.

Potter wasn't overly gentle, but he at least made sure to leave his sanity intact, and that Draco respected and admired. Patiently he let his sincerity float to the surface, saw Potter pick it up, examine it from all sides, hold it up to the sight, and let a little of his exasperation surge through. This was risking Draco's _life, _for crying out loud. Muttering, the pseudo-Potter retrieved himself from Draco's mind, and Draco was left staring into green eyes.

"I can't let you do this."

Stunned, Draco stopped. Of all the contingencies he had planned for, he had never accounted for this. "What?" he asked, letting his astonishment show through. What the hell was wrong with this bloke? Did he have a death wish or something?

"I can't leave behind Hermione, and Ron, and Ginny, and Susan Bones, and Mandy Brocklehurst, and Terry Boot, and all the others. And I can't even let you die in my place. You might deserve this, but still. I can't let anyone else die for me."

Gray eyes narrowed. On second thought, he should have expected this. Dumb Gryffindors with their sense of nobility, and of course Potter had a hero-complex to boot. Well, he'd worked hard for this. And it was true that if he could, he'd get them all out of here, but he'd had to make a choice, and Potter was the best choice for this. Potter was _not _going to ruin this for him like he'd ruined everything else.

Whipping out his wand, Draco muttered, "_Imperio!"_

He had already used so many Unforgivables, one more wouldn't really matter.

It went against his gut instincts to hex, no, curse someone unarmed and defenceless, but then, he'd had eighteen years to train against that, hadn't he, and he'd done a damn good job of it too, considering his own track record.

Potter's ability to buck this curse was legendary, but he was weak, and hungry, and tired, and Draco's will and magic had strengthened since he was a mere schoolboy. All too soon, the man's eyes glazed over, and Draco murmured to him, ignoring the outraged cry from the neighbouring cells—he had expected them to speak up before this, actually—"You will go along with Zacharias Smith. You will escape with him to wherever you decide best. You will reach somewhere safe. These orders will be ingrained into you, and you must obey them, even after I lift this spell. I _will _it so. _Finite Incantem._"

Potter's eyes snapped clear as he lifted the curse, and Draco knew that everyone had felt the surge of his will when he had commanded this, and was pleasantly smug at their surprise. Rage poured out of those green eyes, along with helplessness, but Draco looked at him immovably, and slowly, numbly, Potter let Draco unchain him and went over to Smith's side.

Both downed their Potions, and Draco felt the familiar pain as the Potion tore through him, realigning his features. As Potter turned to go, Draco could not help calling after him.

"Potter?" he turned.

"Please. Avenge my parents."

There was a long, long pause, and finally, the black-haired man nodded, an inscrutable look in his eyes.

"And Potter?

"Avenge me, and Granger, and everyone else who has to die tomorrow because of the fucking bastard out there. Okay?"

And for the first time, Potter smiled, a real genuine smile, though with heartbreak in his eyes, and said, "Okay." And he turned, and walked off, with Smith at his side, and for a brief single flash, Draco knew what would happen next.

Knew that Potter would make it, along with Smith, to France. Knew that he would find Lupin, and McGonagall, and Severus, and the Delacours, and all the other surviving remnants of the Order and Hogwarts. Knew that Fleur Delacour would persuade the Veelas to help him. Knew that one day, Potter would come back with the shine in his green eyes and a look on his face that would make the Dark Lord quail.

And knew that one day, Potter would keep his promise, and there would be a better world out there for Pans, and Blaise, and Vince, and Greg, and all his other schoolmates shivering out there in the cold.

And Draco was satisfied.


End file.
